Poison Island eBook

She held out two handfuls of diamonds, and began to
sing in a high, cracked voice, while she let them
rain through her fingers.

“But listen!” I cried suddenly.

She ceased at once, and stood with her face half turned
to the darkness behind her, her arms rigid at her
sides, the gems dropping as her hand slowly unclasped
them. Below, where the tunnel ran down into
darkness, a voice hailed—­

“’Metta! Is that ’Metta?”

It was the voice of Dr. Beauregard. The poor
creature gazed at me helplessly and ran for the stairway.
But her feet sank in the loose heap of jewels; she
stumbled; and, as she picked herself up, I saw that
she was too late; for already a light shone up from
the tunnel below, and before she could gain the exit
the Doctor stood there, lifting a torch, in the light
of which I saw Mr. Rogers close behind his shoulder.

“’Metta!”

I do not think he would have hurt her. But as
the torch flared in her face and lit up the shining
heap of jewels, she threw up both hands and doubled
back screaming. I believed that she called to
me to hide. I put out a hand to catch her by
the skirt, seeing that she ran madly; but the thin
muslin tore in my clutch.

“’Metta!”

On the ledge, against the sky, the voice seemed to
overtake and steady her for a second; but too late.
With a choking cry, she put out both hands against
the void, and toppled forward; and in the entrance
was nothing but the blue, empty sky.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

DOCTOR BEAUREGARD.

“Glass? My dear madam, pardon my remissness;
he is dead. Rosa brought me the news before we
sat down to table.”

I opened my eyes. In the words, as I came back
to consciousness, I found nothing remarkable, nor
for a few seconds did it surprise me that the dark
gallery had changed into a panelled, lighted room,
with candles shining on a long, white table, and on
flowers and crystal decanters, and dishes heaped with
fruit. The candles were shaded, and from the
sofa where I lay I saw across the cloth the faces of
Miss Belcher and Captain Branscome intent on the Doctor.
He was leaning forward from the head of the table and
speaking to Plinny, who sat with her back to me, darkly
silhouetted against the light. Mr. Rogers, on
Plinny’s left, had turned his chair sideways
and was listening too; and at the lower end of the
board a tall epergue of silver partially hid the form
of Mr. Goodfellow.

“Yes, indeed, I ought to have told you,”
went on the Doctor’s voice. “But
really no recovery could be expected. The man’s
heart was utterly diseased.”

His gaze, travelling past Plinny, wandered as if casually
towards me, where I lay in the penumbra. I felt
it coming, and closed my eyes; and on the instant
my brain cleared.

Yes; Glass was dead, of course, poisoned by this man
as ruthlessly as these my friends would be poisoned
if I cried out no warning. . . . Or perhaps it
had happened already.